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Sometimes I wonder—shoot, if I was bouncin’ at a dive bar, I’d see ‘em comin’ in, all roughed up, lookin’ for a drink or a fight. Breaks my heart, man. I’d wanna shake ‘em and yell, “Get outta this crap!” But nah, ain’t my place. Margaret’s got that line, “You’re not even human!”—and I feel that, ‘cause society treats ‘em like ghosts. Pisses me off royally. How’s that workin’ for ya, world? Huh? Ain’t workin’ worth a damn.

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I seen all kinda shit: wild nights, laughs, and a bit o’ sadness, all brewed in a stew of passion. Every nook got a flavor. Imma shout out to that graffiti on Brick Alley—dope tags shout “Say goodbye to language” in splashes of orange and blue. It’s like art got its own language, beyond words.

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